


An Honorable Heart

by Sodapop_McGee



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bifauxnen, Canon Relationships with a Twist, Canon with a twist, F/F, F/M, Faux Yay, Female-Centric, Gen, Gender Issues, Genderswap, Ho Yay, Novelization, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3063860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodapop_McGee/pseuds/Sodapop_McGee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if d'Artagnan was secretly a girl? Just how different could things be? </p><p>Well, as it turns out, quite different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was raining hard on the road to Paris. The ground had turned to muck and the deluge from the skies was relentless. Still, the horses kept their heads bowed and trudged forward, the wagon wheels bumping and rattling steadily over the soft earth.

Jacqueline's breath steamed in the air as she let out a sad sniff and she pulled her woolen cloak tighter around her shoulders. The material was wet enough to stick to her like a second skin and afforded next to nothing by way of warmth, but the hood kept her face hidden from her father. It was better that he did not see. Gaspar always used to say that her expressions could not hold any secrets because it was always obvious to know how she was feeling.

He also used to say she had one of those angry faces that made it too irresistible to tease.

'It doesn't make you any prettier,' he had said once when he playfully felled her in a duel and she'd given him a look of simmering ire. 'We already know you're capable of beating the village boys bloody. Now you just look like you don't have anything to lose.'

'I have no intention of courting my opponents, dear brother,' she shot back hotly. 'If they're fool enough to make me angry, they needn't worry about a pleasant countenance. They need to worry about the point of my  _sword_.'

'Such  _anger_  from the supposedly gentler sex." Gaspar shook his head, extending his hand to help her to her feet. "Father already thinks that in teaching you to fence, I've interrupted the development of your natural talents.'

'What? Sewing and domestic drudgery?" Jacqueline rolled her eyes. She stubbornly refused his offer to help and stood up on her own, dusting herself off. "Oh, how will I  _ever_  find a husband  _now_?"

'Oh, there, there," her brother grinned. "Don't you look so put out, Mademoiselle d'Artagnan.  _Boyish_  good looks or not, someone will make a Madame of you yet!'

He then laughed when she swiped at him, putting up his sword and as she jumped to charge, their game begun anew.

Now that same sword lay across her lap, sheathed and wrapped in a sodden cloth that could have been a burial shroud. Jacqueline touched the end of the pommel and followed the lines of the curved handle with reverent fingers. How strange to see the weapon so lifeless when it had once been so animated in his hands.

"It has not passed my notice of what today is," her father said beside her. Over the rain and the rattling of the wagon, he had to raise his voice a little, like a half-shout. "I miss him very much too. If he were here, we probably would've been riding to Paris to see Monsieur Treville. It had always been Gaspar's dream to enlist in the King's Musketeers."

"Yes," Jacqueline replied bitterly, "but instead of the garrison, we are riding to see the Mother Superior at the Abbaye-aux-Bois when it has never been my dream to enroll in a convent." She looked out into the woodlands rolling by and tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. "If he were here, he would protest most severely."

"It was your brother who recommended you see the inside of a nunnery," her father pointed out. "He suggested you'd tire of it eventually and realize the virtue in motherhood."

"More than likely he said it in jest and you took it as gospel."

Gaspar had been brash and ironic and had a talent for provoking others but few people understood him like Jacqueline did. She had been his constant companion, his eager shadow, ever since he saw her pick up a sword and realized she was a far livelier sparring partner than the family's creaky old valet.

She knew for a fact that he would have dreaded anything that would have made his sister unhappy. 

"Jacqueline," her father sighed. "I am getting old, and your brother is dead. Who will take care of you when I too am in the ground?"

"I can care for myself. You know I can."

"In a duel, I have no doubt." Alexander d'Artagnan shook his head. "You would make a finer soldier than most, I admit, but a woman's place is not on the battlefield. You would have done better with more female influences, I think. The good sisters will give you that. Teach you to be gentler. God knows, I could not."

"I should have been born a man," Jacqueline muttered. 

"And I should have been born rich," he replied. "Then I would not have a poor man's reasons to give his daughter away."

Pushing her hood to one side, Jacqueline stole a glance at her father. Water was dripping down the brim of his hat, his long silver hair hanging in thick, dark grey tendrils around his face. He looked very sad and very old and defeated and nothing like the proud man she remembered from her youth.

Her heart squeezed in her chest. He was only trying to do what he thought was best. 

Up ahead, they were coming upon an inn by the road. It was a modest looking cottage, but smoke was curling out of the chimney and there was a stable for the horses. The idea of drying off in front of a fire and bedding down for the night with warm stew in their bellies suddenly became an inviting one to Jacqueline. 

"We should stop to rest, father," Jacqueline said, putting a hand on his forearm. "You are tired."

They could stay up and talk and he could regale her with stories of her mother just like he had done when she and Gaspar were children. She missed those days. 

"But Paris is only a few hours away," he protested, never a man to admit to needing rest even if he was about to fall off his horse.

"Paris will still be there in the morning," she replied. "Are you really so eager to see me off so soon?"

Smiling at her uncertainly at her change in mood, Alexander relinquished the reins to his daughter and she let her him off in front of the drive while she went to shelter the horses from the downpour.

Inside the stable, the groom's boy was snoring loudly in the corner, almost completely buried under the straw. Seeing that he had apparently been deep in his cups, Jacqueline set to work on unhitching the horses by herself.

In truth, there was no reason why they took the wagon for the journey. Most of her belongings could comfortably fit into a small valise. She didn't need much nor have much in the way of clothing. Jacqueline was much taller than her mother had been, wider in the shoulders but much smaller in the chest and narrower in the hips so that the late Madame's dresses never fit properly. Madame Planchet always used to throw her hands in the air and complain that she was an odd thing to dress; the poor old woman could never make anything that could keep up with her growth spurts. As such, Jacqueline had grown accustomed to wearing Gaspar's old clothes and if there was one thing she'd celebrate about joining a convent, it was the blessed simplicity of a loose tunic.

Still, despite her pointing out the practicalities of taking only the humblest of her things, her father argued that if she insisted on bringing her brother's sword as a memento, she should also bring along least one or two dresses if needs must. They were even less tolerant of a woman dressing in man's clothing in Paris, he explained, but Jacqueline knew that he was really hoping that she'd run into some handsome man in the market and, should a sudden fit of propriety take her, she'd have something to wear other than a nun's garb or her brother's worn breeches.

She was thankful for those breeches now. Skirts were terribly uncomfortable and heavy when wet and were impractical for travel in the country.

They were even worse for maneuvering around a dirty stable.

She had just finished removing the bridle off Alphonse, his father's dark bay gelding, and was about to move on to her dappled mare when she heard the click of a pistol behind her.

"Hands up, boy," said a gruff voice.

Jacqueline's back went rigid as a plank and she did as she was bid. She turned on the spot, staring down the barrel of a gun. The man pointing the weapon at her wore a mask that covered the bottom half of his face. Her gaze dropped from the pistol and his face and her brows furrowed in confusion. Displayed prominently on the breast of his tunic was the fleur-de-lis, the stylized symbol of the King.

"I was always told the Musketeers were honorable men," she said. She and Gaspar used to pretend they were part of the regiment, chasing bandits in the woods, fighting Spaniards, rescuing nobles and pretty maidens.

Two other men in uniform crowded around her.

"You were misinformed," one of them spat.

Suddenly crack of gunfire exploded somewhere outside and the men and the horses startled.

But not Jacqueline.

Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, she side-stepped her would-be assailant and re-aimed the pistol at one of the men behind her. The man with the gun fired in surprise and his companion dropped dead to the ground. Jacqueline, meanwhile, was still moving. She smashed her elbow into the gunman's face and as he collapsed backward from the blow, she used her free hand to draw his sword and rounded on the last man standing.

He stepped back hesitantly. Evidently, he had been expecting an easy mark.

Jacqueline, however, was anything but easy.

"Well?" she demanded, giving her weapon a playful flick in the air. "Don't you want to ask a lady to dance?"

More gun-fire sounded outside. The whinny of horses, the gallop of hooves, whoops, hollers and shouts and then the rattle of a stage coach. The musketeer glanced at the door, then at her holding the sword and made up his mind. He turned and made a sudden break for the door.

Dropping a curse, Jacqueline chased after him.

If it were even possible, it was raining harder than before. Almost losing her footing through the mud as she ran, Jacqueline rounded the corner of the cottage with sword and pistol still in hand, but skidded to a stop when she reached the main road. There, she watched, panting hard with her hair plastered to her head, as the entire carriage and company turned into the next fork and galloped back safely into the woods.

"Argh," she swiped the air in frustration and whirled around to see her father coming up the path. "They got away," she shouted to him. And then, anticipating his next question, she added: "Don't worry, I'm not hurt."

She saw him mouth something, but no sound came out.

Her brows knitted together. "Father?"

Something was wrong. He was clutching his hand to his chest and dragging his feet. There was a strange, stammering look on his face.

Jacqueline's eyes widened.

"Father!" she yelled again, this time in a panic. She sprinted towards him at once and caught him before he could keel forward and together they sank to the muddy ground. She looked down at her open palm in horror, seeing red even as the rain hurried to wash it away. "Oh dear God in heaven, you're bleeding."

"Athos," he rasped in response. "Athos."

"What is that? What does it mean?" With quaking hands, Jacqueline framed her father's face and gently tried to coax him to look up at her. His eyes were fluttering open and shut and there was so much blood, so much blood everywhere and there was nothing she could do, no one she could call for help. "Is that the name of the man who did this? Tell me his name, father!  _Father_?!"

"Athos," Alexander d'Artagnan said again.

And then he said no more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacqueline makes it to Paris and meets a shady lady

They were supposedly much more formal in Paris. To hear folk talk of it, one would think that the streets were paved with gold, and the peasants as mild-mannered and honorable as they were poor.

Jacqueline was quick to discover that it was the exact opposite.

The streets may have been cobbled, but they were narrow and crowded by hunched and hobbling citizens that neither looked nor smelled any better than the refuse and feces rolling through the open gutters. Rats skittered unabashedly under foot and no one seem to watch who was below when tossing the contents of their pails out their windows. Quick reflexes could mean the difference between a narrow escape and a trip to the laundromat.

The hospitality was an even sadder state of affairs.

The innkeeper’s wife kept calling Jacqueline ‘Monsieur’ despite Jacqueline having politely introduced herself as ‘Mademoiselle.’ The room she showed her came with a dirty floor, a lop-sided bed and a dresser, with none of the comforts of even a half-way decent establishment in Gascony (dinner—extra, bath—extra, soap—was there any need to guess?).

It would, however, have to do for now.

Taking a table in the corner of the dining hall, Jacqueline ordered a bottle of wine for supper and sat nursing it in lieu of the less than appetizing ‘house specialty.’ It was some of the worst wine she’d ever had, but she was too numb and heartsick to care.

She barely remembered arriving in the city. She could barely remember anything, really. The last few days were like a waking dream. She knew she would eventually have to write to Monsieur Deschamps, her father's steward, and tell him what happened. Perhaps even ride back to Lupiac herself to settle his affairs but truthfully, she was afraid of what waited for her back home. An empty house full of old memories and ghosts. A county with a heavily taxed, unhappy population. Her father had been going to petition the king on their behalf and because the people knew him to be an honorable man, there hadn't been much unrest in Lupiac as there had been in neighboring villages. With him gone, she doubted the other Seigneurs would be able to keep things calm for much longer.

They would all mourn Alexander d'Artagnan but none of them would go so far as to seek retribution on his behalf. That sort of task usually fell on a father, brother or son, but now only Jacqueline remained.

 _I will avenge you father_ , she had vowed silently, standing in the little chapel yard outside the Dourden forest where she had buried him with no one but a mumbling parish priest and the rolling, overcast sky as witnesses. Anger curled behind her breast as she stared at the grave marker, the emotion burning hot and fierce and mixing vengeance into her blood.   _I have the skill and I have the desire. I will kill Athos for taking you away from me._

She had just finished filling her third cup when the front door opened and then shut again. Looking out the corner of her eye, Jacqueline caught an unexpected bloom of scarlet against the drab browns and grays of the inn's interior. It was a dress made of silk and black lace, exposing the creamy shoulders and décolletage of an astonishingly beautiful raven-haired woman. Jacqueline had never seen anyone dressed so elegantly before. Not even her mother's best dress—a lovely gown of blue brocade trimmed with white needlelace and a golden stomacher—in all its splendor could compare to such couture. 

The woman was accompanied by an equally well-dressed Spanish gentleman though he was decidedly less handsome than the lovely creature on his arm. He was big-bellied and round-faced and looked at least twice her age.

"We'll have your best room," he told the innkeeper haughtily, his accent light and affected. "And if the bed has fleas, you will be whipped."

"Draw me a bath," added the woman. "Be sure the water is clean. I don't want to bathe in someone else's scum."

"Clean water is extra, Madame."

The words were out of Jacqueline's mouth before she could stop them. She had no idea why she spoke at all. Perhaps it was the wine. 

The woman's gaze flicked to Jacqueline and her head cocked to the side in interest, but it was her companion who insisted on answering for her. 

"Are you addressing  _me_ , boy?" he demanded. 

 First the innkeeper's near-sighted wife, now this powdered old fool. Could no one in Paris tell the difference between a man and a woman if they were wearing the wrong clothes? 

Jacqueline rolled her eyes.

"Not unless your name is 'Madame,'" she quipped, raising her gaze to meet the man's in defiance. A few of the inn's guests, who were in earshot of the exchange, chuckled into their cups. 

The Spaniard went red with embarrassment and he dramatically reached for his sword belt, advancing upon Jacqueline in a bluster. 

Bored, Jacqueline reached for her belt in response and smoothly drew out her father's pistol, uncocking it with a click. 

"Put it back or I'll blow your head off," she said evenly. If the fool thought her male, she could certainly oblige him and behave like one.

That immediately stopped the man in his tracks, his face going from red to the ripe violet of a beet. 

"You, Sir, are not a gentleman," he accused sourly.

"Oh, you have  _no_ idea."

"He's just some drunken thug, Mendoza," the woman in red called from the staircase. "Put your sword away."

Mendoza glared at Jacqueline but his weapon obediently slid back into its sheath with a hiss.

Fully aware of all the eyes on him now, he added: "we'll settle this at breakfast."  

Jacqueline smirked. "I'll be in the courtyard at eight."

She watched him huff and turn around to waddle back to join his lady on the stair, reflecting with some measure of irony, that agreeing to the duel seemed almost uncharitable in retrospect. The fat idiot could barely walk, let alone climb a couple of steps without getting winded. At best, he’d make for a suitable practise dummy before she faced Athos tomorrow, if not fodder for public spectacle. She wondered what color his face would turn once she thoroughly humiliated him in front of ‘Milady.’ 

Her gaze shifted to the woman in red then, blinking in surprise when she found her staring right back as she ascended the stairs after Mendoza. Her expression was oddly wistful, grasping.  

 _What are you doing with such a buffoon?_ Jacqueline wanted to ask her, but then noting where they were headed, realized she already knew the answer. There weren’t very many kind fates for women who refused marriage or the cloth and Jacqueline had no right to pity. If she were not careful, she would have to find a buffoon of her own.

 _Never_ , she thought vehemently, turning back to pour herself another glass after the woman disappeared beyond the landing and their eye-contact broke. The very idea of dressing up in pretty skirts and fawning over some pompous old fool while pretending to like it made her stomach crumple in disgust.  _I’d die first._

But then, it raised the difficult question of what she had left.

Jacqueline had no skill, no trade. She was god-awful with the needle and thread and worse as a cook. Her father had encouraged an education at the convent for these reasons, perhaps as a governess or a nurse, but truthfully, Jacqueline had no mind for books and her temperament was more suited to putting holes in men than bandaging them up or caring for their offspring. The only thing she had been built for, trained for, was the life of the blade.

 _Pity they don’t commission women into the musketeers,_ she thought, taking a deep quaff of her wine. _If I were part of the regiment, I’d make sure men like Athos were brought to justice._

It did not matter. These were foolish thoughts. After she was done with her vengeance, she would consider her future.  

Until then, there was wine.

**

The candle at her elbow had burned down to a sputtering stub by the time Jacqueline was done with her bottle. It was late at night and most of the other patrons had either retired home or were dozing at their tables. Reminding herself why it was a bad idea to do the same, Jacqueline rose unsteadily to her feet and made the staggering trek back upstairs to her room.

On the landing, however, she bumped into the women in red again, closing a door quietly behind her. Their eyes met once more, but Milady looked away and moved to hurriedly brush past Jacqueline.

“Running off?” Jacqueline asked, when once more, she had no intention of giving any voice. She did not know what fascinated her so much about this woman. Perhaps it was because she was so different from herself.  Or perhaps it was the wine again. “Won’t your husband miss you?”

Milady froze in her tracks and turned around. “He’s not my husband.”

Jacqueline knew that. “Ah,” she said, pretending she didn’t.

Milady frowned. “Is there something you want?”

“No.” Jacqueline rocked back on the balls of her feet. “Just wondering if I must apologize in the event of making you a widow tomorrow.”

The corner of the other woman’s ruby red lips lifted. “You’re that confident?” she asked, approaching Jacqueline in a slow, strolling manner, her heels clacking against the floorboards. “Then I should inform you that killing Mendoza would be a strike against Spain. He is a wealthy shareholder of the Spanish Silver Fleet.”

“So then what is he doing in a cockroach infested tavern with you?”

It wasn’t supposed to come out like that. Milady’s expression darkened, her lip curling in a different way now to reveal her teeth like a string of pearls. She drew her hand back and slapped Jacqueline hard against the face.

Jacqueline staggered back in surprise, but before she could recover, Milady was upon her again, though this time her manner was much less violent. She put her hands on either one of Jacqueline’s cheeks and stroked them soothingly as if trying to smudge the sting away.

“Such cheekbones,” she whispered, looking up at Jacqueline through lidded eyes. She smelled of jasmine and lavender and everything soft and feminine that Jacqueline had always rebelled against and despised. “What is it about men like you that I find so irresistible?”

 _Men…like me?_ Jacqueline thought dazedly.

Then, for the second time in the span of as many breaths, she was stunned out of a response as Milady pushed her back against her bedroom door and smothered her lips with hers.

This was not the first time Jacqueline had been kissed by another woman. It happened while they were playing bandits and kingsmen in the woods. Suzette Descoteaux had been too shy to kiss a boy but since a rescued maiden  _had_  to kiss a musketeer, she kissed Jacqueline. Gaspar had been so mad. He only made up the rule because he wanted Suzette to kiss  _him_.

But Milady's kiss was nothing like shy Suzette's. It was not like any kiss she had before. It was the way men and women would kiss when they thought no one was looking, in private corners, in shadowed alleyways, in secret enclaves in the forest. 

Jacqueline’s eyes went wide and she quickly extracted herself from Milady’s embrace. “Madame,” she exclaimed, heart taking up a gallop in her chest like a spooked horse. “You are mistaken. This is a mistake.”

“I see no mistake,” Milady purred, slipping her arms back around Jacqueline’s neck like a python encircling its prey. “You are a handsome man. I am a beautiful woman. This couldn’t be more… perfect.”

 _I’m not a man_ , Jacqueline’s frantic mind supplied. _That is the mistake_.

“I… I’m in mourning,” she said instead. That was the other truth, at least. Her head was swimming from the combination of wine and the scent of perfume and she wanted nothing more than to escape into her room and lock the door but she didn’t want to distress the poor mixed up creature. 

 “I could be an excellent comfort,” Milady offered, her voice thick like honey. She went to lean in for another kiss, but Jacqueline turned her head and gently pushed her off.

“My father was killed two days ago—I haven’t the heart.”

A flicker of scorn flashed behind Milady’s eyes like a strike of a lightning and something in them made Jacqueline think that she would react violently again. But a moment later, all malevolence fled and Milady’s countenance was smoothed back into the mask of congenial courtesan once more and she took a respectful step back.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and it looked like she really meant it. “The world is a very dark and cruel place and we all have our personal tragedies.” She raised her chin and a gloved hand fluttered up to the lace choker, pulling it down just enough to reveal a bright purple scar cutting a jagged line across the center of her throat. “This one is mine.”

It took Jacqueline several, thudding heartbeats to realize what she was looking at it. There was only one way to get a scar like that. “Dear God. What happened?”

“The man I love tried to kill me.”

The way she said _love_ held tears. Everything else was perfectly cool and porcelain, but _love_ cracked and fissured.

Jacqueline swallowed hard. “ _Why_?”

Milady shrugged, tucking the ribbon back into its place. “Madness. Jealousy. He was a dangerous man. It’s just my luck that I always seem drawn to dangerous men.”

“Is—is he still alive?”

“He won’t be for long.” She looked off to the side. “He took too much.”

Jacqueline nodded. She thought of Athos. Of her father dying in her arms, his blood spreading around them like a mantle even as the rain washed their faces clean. “If you give me his name, I will kill him for you.”

That drew a smile out of the woman in red and she looked back at Jacqueline.

 “Careful,” she said softly, reaching up a perfumed hand to stroke her cheek. “I just may hold you to it one day, Monsieur—”

“—D’Artagnan,” Jacqueline said without thinking. “D’Artagnan of Lupiac and Gascony.”

“D’Artagnan,” Milady echoed softly. She then withdrew, pulling her shawl closer around her pale shoulders. “Well, it’s getting late and you have an early appointment tomorrow morning.”

“Yes,” Jacqueline cleared her throat, breaking from a momentary trance.  She grasped the handle behind her and opened the door into the darkness of her room, stepping inside almost all too eagerly. “Good night.”

Milady smiled mysteriously. “Good night.”

The door shut with a click and Jacqueline collapsed against it, sighing out her relief.

**

Balmy, early morning sunlight was streaming through the cracks in the shutters when Jacqueline awoke with a pounding headache. Her mouth was dry and her eyes were sticky and apparently she slept in her brother's leather doublet and breeches. She hadn’t even bothered pulling off her boots. Running her tongue over her teeth, she lifted her head and peered blearily around the unfamiliar room. She spotted her brother's sword and her father's pistol on the chair near the window and that strange, alien emptiness of the last few days came rushing back.

Oh. So, it hadn’t all been some awful dream. Gaspar was dead. Her father was dead. She really was in Paris and she had almost been seduced by another woman last night.

Her left cheek was still aching from where Milady had cracked her and when she touched her mouth, her fingertips came away with a smudge of red.

Dear God. She dropped her face back into the pillow. She would really need to revisit the virtues of sobriety and dressing in skirts. She never had this problem back home.

On the other hand, everyone in the county had known who she was. And if she really was that convincing...

A scream outside her door obliterated that train of thought. Jacqueline rolled onto her back and then startled at the sight of a bloody dagger driven straight through the pillow on the other side of the bed.

More screaming ensued—a whole chorus of them—and sensing the urgency, she snatched the weapon and stumbled out into the hallway to investigate.

There was a gaggle of women in pinafores and caps crowding the entrance way to the room on the opposite side of the hall. Confused, Jacqueline started her way over, dread tunneling through her gut. Through the partly open door and the spaces between the milling bodies, she saw a bathing tub filled to the brim in dark red water. In it was a large and very naked man. His head was tilted back, his throat slashed.

Jacqueline's stomach bottomed out at the sight. 

It was Mendoza.

And in her hands, she was holding the knife that killed him.

The other people in the room turned around and by the looks on their faces, it was clear that they had come to that same conclusion. The innkeeper's wife pointed a gnarled finger at her.

"I saw 'em arguing last night," she said. "He was with his lady. He's the one. He did it!"

Jacqueline's eyes widened. She looked at the bloody blade in her hand and suddenly tossed it aside as if it were hot gleed. "No, no," she said, holding her hands up and taking a few staggering steps back. "You don't understand…"

"Get him!" someone shouted and then, Jacqueline was whirling around and racing back into her room. She slammed the door, closed the latch and then for good measure, pushed the heavy armoire down on the floor, blocking the doorway.

 _The elegant woman—Milady_ , Jacqueline thought dimly.  _She had been the one who killed Mendoza and then somehow managed to frame_ me _for it._

She heard the slam of a body throwing their shoulder on the other side of the door. Whoever they were, they were strong. The flimsy latch on the lock rattled. Another hit and it'd break entirely.

Thinking fast, Jacqueline grabbed her sword belt, small valise and the rest of her effects from her chair and dashed for the window. There was no time to undo all the locks on the shutters, half-falling apart though they were. She simply steeled herself and rammed through the wood, leaping down into the street below in an explosion of splinters.

Breaking the barricade, however, had thrown her jump and she wasn't able to control her fall. She landed wrong, letting out a cry as she felt a sharp jab in her side.

But stopping to assess the damage was not an option. There were people looking out of her window and pointing at her and shouting for the authorities; people filing out of the front doors of the inn, coming for her, accusing her of murder.

Ignoring the frissons of pain that rocketed through her body, Jacqueline grasped her things and scrambled to her feet, taking off down the opposite street.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you kindly to those who left kudos and bookmarked/subscribed to the story. 
> 
> For anyone who is wondering, I envision Jacqueline looking a bit like Daniela Sea, or alternatively, a young, baby-faced Johnny Depp with long hair circa his _21 Jump Street_ or _Cry Baby_ days. It's the cheekbones with these two.


	3. Chapter 3

For the second time that day, Jacqueline sat up in an unfamiliar bed. Mid-afternoon sunlight was slanting through a curtained window at a long angle, tinting everything in the room with a burnished gold. Every surface seemed to be covered by some kind of fabric and the air smelled faintly of vegetable dye.

“You’re awake,” said a female voice. Footsteps knocked into the room in a quick, efficient stride and weaved around behind the bed. Jacqueline lifted her head to see a woman place a bowl and copper pitcher next onto the bedside table. She was young, in her mid-twenties at most, with curly auburn hair and a soft, round face that was as pretty as it was sweet. “Good. I thought maybe something was wrong with you.”

Jacqueline blinked at her blearily. Her head still felt tinny and sore from this morning, but the sharp twinge that skittered up her side every time she drew breath was completely new. 

“Where am I?"

“My husband’s house," the woman explained. "You took quite the tumble. You bumped into me in the market—almost knocked me over, really—and begged me to hide you, and then you just… keeled over." 

 That would explain it. The last thing she remembered was her defenestrating escape from the inn and being chased by a small mob consisting of its staff and patrons.

 Jacqueline blinked. 

 

 “Wait, you took a _stranger_ home with you?”

“You were injured man,” the Madame defended, then she blushed. “Or, at least I _thought_ you were a man—“

 “—you could have gotten robbed!”

“—meaning no offense, of course, it’s just that you have very strong features and—“

“—or killed!”

“—you were wearing those clothes—“

“—I could have been a _murderer_.”

“—and I wasn’t going to just leave you lying in the gu—wait, _are you_?”

“What?”

The woman’s brows crooked together and she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “A _murderer_?”

“No!” Jacqueline exclaimed, wide-eyed. “And for God’s sake, I’m not a man either.” She pushed the wet cloth and the woman’s hand that held it away from her and dropped her face into her hands. The stress, the nerves, the losses of the last few day were marching up the pillar of her throat, like siege-men about to take one last swing at a battered gate.  “Oh, everything is such a mess.”

The mattress dipped a little as the young Madame took a seat on the bed beside her. “Tell me about it,” she said, putting a warm, affectionate hand on Jacqueline’s shoulder. “It might help.”

Jacqueline was reluctant, but her eyes felt annoyingly prickly and hot and, at the promise of an understanding ear, the burden of it all suddenly seemed too heavy to carry alone.

So it all came tumbling out like water out of a wooden pail. The journey to Paris to join a convent, the attack on the inn, her father’s death, his funeral, all the way up to the scuffle at the inn this morning (leaving out the more embarrassing and sordid details from the night before).

The woman was very quiet as she listened, nodding at some points, shaking her head at others, her brows furrowed and her eyes full of glassy understanding.

“That is a lot to handle for one person,” she said once Jacqueline was finished. “No wonder you’re so… turned around.”

Jacqueline gave her a watery small. She felt better, lighter, even if her nose was red. “Thank you, Madame,” she said earnestly. “For your kindness and for saving my life.”

 “Constance.” The other woman smiled kindly in return, offering her handkerchief. “My name is Constance Bonacieux.”

“Jacqueline Charlise de Batz d’Artagnan of Lupiac and Gascony,” Jacqueline sniffed, taking the proffered cloth and blowing her nose, unaware of Constance’s suddenly wilted expression.  “Though I’m beginning to think I might as well be calling myself Jacques.”

“Or just d’Artagnan.” At Jacqueline’s curious look, Constance shrugged. “It is ambiguous enough and Jacques is my husband’s given name.”

Jacqueline nodded. ‘D’Artagnan’ had been the name she gave Milady the night before in a fluster. She wondered where the woman was now.  _Half-way to hell, I hope,_ she thought bitterly. _She and this Athos fellow would really make the perfect couple._

Jacqueline’s stomach bottomed out at the remembrance of the name and she glanced towards the window. It was already the late afternoon and the day was slinking away much too quickly.

At once, she was out of bed, ignoring the riot of aching pains and muscles incited by the sudden movement and walking over to pluck her belongings off the nearby chair.

“I’m sorry,” she explained, pulling on her brother’s warm, honey-brown tunic and doing up the clasps. “I’ve already over-stayed my welcome. I must go.”

Constance stood and turned around to look at her in confusion. “Wait. What? Where do you think you’re going?”

“The musketeer’s garrison.” Jacqueline found her gloves and slipped them on, already anticipating the weight of a blade in her hands. “I have an appointment with Athos.”

“Athos?” Constance frowned. “I know him.” Then, recognizing the sudden tension in her new friend and putting two and two together, her eyes widened in realization. “Wait. That’s that man who you think—no, it can’t be. He’s one of the most honorable men I’ve ever met. He wouldn’t kill anyone in cold blood.”

“Then perhaps you don’t know him as well as you think you do,” Jacqueline replied, a tinge of frustration kicking into her voice. She decided she liked the young Madame and it annoyed her that she would stand for such a snake like Athos. There was no doubt. There _couldn’t_ be any doubt. “He’s the one who killed my father, Constance. I’m sure of it. And every second he’s left breathing is a travesty.”

She slung the sword belt over her shoulder, buckling it in place, and then strode out of the room, a suddenly very anxious Madame Bonacieux at her heels.

“You cannot be serious,” the other woman exclaimed, following Jacqueline through the kitchen. “Even if he is guilty, you should leave this to the proper authorities. Athos is a trained solider, an accomplished swordsmen. One of the best, in fact. And you’re just a…”

 “…Woman?” Jacqueline paused at the front door and turned around, looking down at the shorter woman from her considerable height. She frowned. “How much you underestimate our shared sex, Madame.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Constance snapped. “You’re still hurt and you don’t have any idea of what you’re going up against. Not even a clue!”

Jacqueline sighed loudly. Reason. She didn’t want to hear it. She was in a race against time, against the very real possibility that she might lose her nerve and Constance’s prattling was only poking and prodding at the fear and doubt she already felt kindling inside her chest.

“You are not your brother, Jacqueline,” Constance continued desperately. “It is heresy for a woman to act as a man.  Even if you survive by some God-merciful miracle, you will be burned at the stake.”

“Lucky for me, I am already pretty convincing,” Jacqueline replied coolly.

“You’ve gone mad! Duelling is _illegal_ in Paris! You will caught and hanged either way!”

 “I don’t _care_ ,” Jacqueline growled. “Trust me when I say that it is _Athos_ that you should be worrying about, Constance. You can tell him d’Artagnan is coming for him, though if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer if you kept it as a surprise.” She turned to roughly push the door open. “Thank you again, Madame, for all your assistance.”

She then stepped outside.


End file.
